The Ladies Granger
by lizziebennetgonesolo
Summary: When Pansy decides to return to Hogwarts and finish her education because she has nowhere else to go, she is faced with hatred from those of the other Houses and apathy from her former allies in Slytherin. However, there is one surprising exception to the rule, and it-she-scares the hell out of Pansy, because what in Merlin's name could Granger possibly want from her?
1. The Pariah

_Disclaimer: I do not own the HP franchise, universe, or characters - they belong to the illustrious J. K. Rowling and to the Warner Bros. No copyright infringement is intended and I will not be making any money from this story._

 **A/N: Hello everyone. So, I'm trying out Pansmione. :) Unlike my other stories, this one is rated M, so read ahead at your own discretion, especially if you are not a fan of profanity or f/f pairings, because this fic will earn its rating.**

 **I was originally just going to post this on Tumblr, but decided that it would be more accessible here XD Please let me know what you think of it if you can spare a moment! On we go.**

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Pansy Parkinson's mother (Madam, she called her; not "mom" or "mum" or even "Mother" like Draco called Narcissa Malfoy; no: Madam) had drilled into her daughter from a very young age the notion that a lady–a proper, Pure-blood lady–does not use vulgar language. No; a proper, Pure-blood lady is always polite, well-mannered, and courteous in the presence of her peers, Madam Parkinson would insist (and as she grew older, Pansy would silently remark that _those are synonyms, you sanctimonious cow)._ Yes, a proper, Pure-blood lady could find ways to express her frustrations without resorting to profanity–or better yet, she could just not express her frustrations, full stop. Restraint was a quality to be admired, Madam Parkinson imparted, and her daughter would do well to employ it.

Well, yet again, Pansy thought, she was going to be a disappointment to her mother, because she was damn well going to express herself, and you know what?

She was so _fucking_ fed up with all of this _shite_. And there was really no better way of putting it than that.

One week back at Hogwarts and already, she was regretting her decision to come back and complete her education.

Pansy Parkinson was Hogwarts's latest and greatest social pariah. Being ignored was the best that she could hope for, though, it seemed; because if she wasn't being ignored, she was being accosted on the way to class, dodging jinxes and hexes galore, or finding her possessions vandalized with such charming slurs as "Death Eater whore", "Slytherin's slut", and the simple, timeless classic, "cunt."

Not even her former allies in Slytherin would acknowledge her beyond their icy, calculating stares and pointed silences in the common room.

And she understood, she really did.

She was "that bitch" who'd tried to turn Harry Sainted Potter over to the Dark Lord. Of course they would all hate her or avoid her, depending on which side they'd been on.

And of course, nothing else mattered.

It didn't matter that she'd been scared out of her wits; didn't matter that the rest of her housemates had been thinking the exact same thing but hadn't had the stones to say it aloud; didn't matter that she'd had her family to think about and that she couldn't control her father's allegiances; didn't matter that she'd seen one of her best and only friends devolve from a healthy, cocksure teenager into an emaciated and defeated young man and through him had learnt _exactly_ what it was to be out of the Dark Lord's favour.

It didn't matter that McGonagall, the sitting Headmistress, had left the entirety of Slytherin House for dead in the dungeons before they'd been rescued by some of their parents. No, it was simply an unfortunate accident that three of the harridan's students, two first-years and a fourth-year, had been crushed by a cave-in when the wards were breached and the first barrage of curses had shaken the castle.

No, none of it mattered.

Draco was under house arrest with his mother and had a private tutor for his N.E.W.T.s, the lucky prick. Greg was in Azkaban and Vince had been incinerated alive in the Room of Requirement. Blaise had long since fucked off to Italy with his mother and was sleeping his way through Milan's fashion industry. Millie had been caught in the crossfire of the second half of the Battle of Hogwarts, her hefty frame found pale and shrouded in her crimson-soaked uniform on the stone ground, her eyes glassy and vacant. Theodore had pulled a Socrates and downed a vial of hemlock before the Aurors could take him in for questioning. Daphne was the new queen bee of the House; she'd had the good fortune of being from a neutral family, and she'd capitalized on that to gain status in Slytherin and across the school in the aftermath of the war, becoming the face of the new strain of moderate Pure-blood traditionalists.

So, naturally, Pansy became a scapegoat, the only senior year student left who'd been actively supporting the Dark Lord's cause, and thus guilty of all of his sins by association.

And she probably deserved it, too; that much she could admit to herself. She'd been petty and vicious and self-important and had reveled in other people's misery and embarrassment. Not that her mother hadn't encouraged her behaviour–after all, Pansy never picked on those Madam Parkinson would have considered "peers". She focused her efforts on the incompetent and those of inferior bloodlines–read: Longbottom types and Granger types.

Except that Granger herself had completely defied Pansy's expectations.

Madam had taught Pansy to expect Mudbloods to be a combination of hideous, idiotic, sycophantic, and cowardly, if not all four. They were innately inferior, like savages, Madam had told her. Only slightly more civilized than Muggles.

Madam had been, as always, full of shite.

Granger was no coward–fuck, she was basically the model Gryffindor. Well, no, that was more like Potter, but whatever. Granger had been by Potter's side throughout all of his misadventures, and from what Pansy had heard through the grapevine, she knew that the Muggle-born had often been the one to get him and the Weasel out of trouble. Fuck, she'd even resisted torture at the hands of _Bellatrix Lestrange._ Pansy shuddered. Meeting Draco's insane aunt at Malfoy Manor had been a terrifying experience. That woman's entire being had reeked of Dark Magic.

And somehow, Granger had managed to stand up to her, even if she was worse for wear because of it.

She wasn't a sycophant, either. No, if anything, Potter got far more out of his relationship with Granger than vice versa, and Pansy had seen her fight with both of her idiotic friends on more than one occasion, leading to bouts of estrangement that could last months. Granger never grovelled when she was on the outs with them; she just carried on, miserable as she always was in her solitude. Pansy knew this, because those times had been the prime opportunities for her to pounce on Granger with snide remarks and sly hexes. The most infuriating thing, though, had been that after the first couple of times, Granger seldom responded to her efforts. She just ignored Pansy, the small crease between her eyebrows the only tell of any annoyance on her part. Ignored Pansy, her superior! It was inconceivable.

And idiotic? Pansy snorted. She didn't even need to touch that one.

Hideous, though; that was something that Pansy had to work with for a few years, and she had clung to the idea like a lifeline. Granger had what might have been the bushiest hair known to man, and for the first few years of school, she'd had a spectacular set of buckteeth to accompany it. The chipmunk quips practically wrote themselves. Aside from those qualities, Granger was also fairly plain as a child, which made her imperfections all the more prominent.

And to make things even better, it seemed that looks were a sore spot for Granger. The comments about her hair and teeth had been the most likely to elicit a clenching of the girl's fists, the grinding of those same teeth, maybe even a faint retort that could be twisted and thrown back in her little Mudblood face.

And then there had been a series of incidents in fourth year that had changed everything.

It had started with Draco's _Densaugeo,_ the source of a short-lived slew of beaver jokes that had been rendered flat when Granger had returned to class the next day with not only not beaver teeth, but not buckteeth. No, her teeth had been perfectly resized and aligned, and what's more, they were a sparkling white, something Pansy had never noticed before. That subtraction from Granger's obvious aesthetic flaws made Pansy fight even harder to prove that Granger was a hideous wretch.

She'd resorted to using that reporter Skeeter to get as many horrid rumours about the Mudblood as possible into Witch Weekly. Granger had despised those articles, and Pansy had taken vicious satisfaction from the other girl's anger and embarrassment, as well as the hate mail the article had provoked.

But then, the Yule Ball had happened.

Pansy had been forced to wear the god-awful, frilly robes that her mother had sent her, in the most ghastly shade of pink she'd ever seen. She had been mortified when she'd tried them on, but was determined not to let her embarrassment show, and it wasn't as if she'd been trying to impress anyone in particular. Sure, she and Draco had paired up without a second thought and everyone had assumed that they were a couple, but the reality was that they were just very good friends and that she loved him like a big brother. They played up their relationship in public, though, because neither of them had been ready to face an entrance into the pure-blood marriage market. If their parents were convinced that the potential for a contract was present and being nurtured between them, they would leave her and Draco alone.

It was as simple as keeping the peace.

So she and Draco had gone together that night, and both of them had utterly failed to keep their jaws shut when they realized who that girl on Viktor Krum's arm was.

The elegant periwinkle robes had fit her perfectly and their colour had complemented her English rose complexion. Her hair had been practically _glossy_ , arranged in a simple but classic up-do that brought her normally chaotic tresses away from her face.

For the first time, Pansy had really _looked_ at Granger's eyes. Her irises were a kind of amber-brown, a blend of coffee and butterscotch that Pansy had never before encountered, and they sparkled with a radiant joy that had left the Pure-blood girl flabbergasted. And her lips…but Pansy cut herself off there.

Suffice it to say that Granger had been gorgeous that night. And after that, Pansy hadn't been able to see her as ugly again. Sure, Granger was no supermodel, but she had lean figure, clear skin, and ridiculously pretty eyes. Pansy also discovered after some begrudging observation that Granger's bushy hair was actually rather intriguing, in a messy, wild kind of way. The revelation stunned her, and she felt disgusted with herself for noticing Granger as she had.

The girl was a Muggle-born, and yet in spite of everything that Pansy had been taught, she was somehow brave, independent, brilliant, and attractive.

In short, Hermione Granger was the spark of an idea that had the power to shatter Pansy's entire belief system.

And Madam would call her "uncivilized."

No, Granger was likely the most civilized person that Pansy had met in her entire life, despite their antagonistic relationship. In fact, Granger was probably the only person who hadn't looked at Pansy like she was the scum on the bottom of her shoes or worse so far this year.

Instead, she looked at her with a weird combination of dislike, pity, sympathy, and something else that Pansy, for the life of her, could not identify. It was confusing as hell, and it kept the Muggle-born girl at the forefront of Pansy's mind.

She could feel Granger's eyes following her every time they were in the same room, which was odd, because that was often library, and Merlin knows that Granger loved her books. After the disaster that was her first night back, Pansy had quickly learnt to take refuge between the rows of book-laden shelves, Pince's no-nonsense reputation protecting her from potential assailants, afraid of earning the wrath of the librarian and any ensuing punishment by causing a disturbance. Granger, naturally, also spent a great deal of her time there, researching and writing her papers for class. Sometimes her little Gryffindor friends would come and sit with her, irritating the brunette with their idle chatter instead of actually focusing on their work; but typically, Granger was alone.

And when she was alone, she watched Pansy.

Pansy dutifully ignored her, determined not to show any kind of curiosity or receptiveness to the enigmatic girl.

Of course, that didn't matter either.

On the eighth day after their return to Hogwarts, when Pansy had her nose buried in an Astronomy tome, a thud sounded and her table shook as a heavy bag was dropped deliberately onto its surface. Pansy had immediately tensed, fingers itching for her wand, but when she looked up, she froze upon seeing Granger pulling out a chair at her table. She sat stupefied, watching as once settled, the bookworm pulled what looked to be Arithmancy homework from her bag and set to work with a polite and perfunctory, "Parkinson," in acknowledgement.

Pansy replied with the first thing that came to her mind, too bewildered to bother filtering her words.

"What the fuck do you think you're playing at, Granger?"


	2. The Truce

**A/N: Hello again! Thank you so much for your reviews, follows, and favourites! I was not expecting this level of interest for the story given that it's a rare pairing, so the response was a delightful surprise. Please continue to let me know your thoughts.**

 **Here is your next chapter! Shorter today, but I couldn't bring myself to add extra on just for the sake of it. The scene can stand alone, and besides—there will be more soon ;)**

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 _"What the fuck do you think you're playing at, Granger?"_

The Muggle-born didn't even look up at Pansy's outburst.

Instead, her lips quirked and, eyes trained on her work, she replied, "I'm doing my Arithmancy calculations, Parkinson. I know you don't take it—Arithmancy, that is—but I'd think it was obvious enough."

Pansy lunged forward to snatch the parchment away, but Granger had been prepared for that. She grabbed one of the many hardcovers from her bag and with a swift downward stroke, she rapped Pansy's knuckles sternly. The latter withdrew her hand with a yelp and scowled, cradling her smarting fist against her chest.

"Ow! What the _fuck,_ Granger?"

The girl in question had already placed the sheets of parchment back on the table and picked up her quill, resuming her previous efforts. She was quiet for a moment before she responded.

"I don't like people touching my work, Parkinson," Granger said calmly, dipping the nib of her quill into her inkpot, "something else I'd have thought to be intuitive."

Pansy watched Granger write, feeling so flustered and irate that her hands began to tremble. "Piss off, Granger," she snapped, but again, the Gryffindor just gave that infuriating half-smile. "I mean it!" Pansy snarled in a low hiss. " _Go ... away._ "

Granger ignored her, taking her time with a line of equations until finally, in a light tone, she replied, "You know, I don't think I will. I rather like this table. Much more secluded than my usual one." For the first time, she glanced up at Pansy's flushed face. "You don't mind, do you?"

Pansy stared at her incredulously. "Oh no, of course I don't mind," she snarled, sarcasm oozing tar-black and heavy from the words. "I always tell people to fuck off when I want them to join me."

"Fantastic," Granger quipped. "Though," she added pensively, "I do believe you said 'piss off', not 'fuck off'. But same difference, I suppose." Granger gave her a brief, mischievous grin before turning her attention back to her work.

Pansy gaped, her eyes wide with disbelief.

"Close your mouth, Parkinson, you'll catch flies."

That did it.

"Fuck it," Pansy muttered, resigned, " _I'll_ leave." She made to push her seat out from the table, but ended up frowning when it wouldn't budge. She tried once more, attaining the same results, and when she tried to use the table as leverage, neither it nor the chair moved.

Pansy gave up, falling back into her seat with a huff and crossing her arms angrily before reddening when she realized how petulant she must look. Again, Granger's focus stayed on her work, but the corners of her mouth were twitching and her attention on the parchment looked suspiciously determined.

They sat in silence for a moment as Pansy tried to bore a hole through Granger's forehead with her eyes. When she got no reaction, she sighed. "Okay, Granger, I'll bite. What do you want?"

The Muggle-born witch looked up, wry humour animating her features. "I just want to do my work at this table, Parkinson," she told Pansy calmly. "You looked to be doing the same a few moments ago. Why don't you get back to it?"

Pansy stared at her. "Look, Granger, if this is some kind of misguided attempt at altruism, you can take it and sho—"

"I don't have a death wish, Parkinson," Granger interrupted. "You're not my latest charity case, believe me. I have my own reasons for this." She waved her hand, gesturing vaguely between them.

Pansy mulled that over, still skeptical. "What could you possibly have to gain by associating with me, Granger?"

"That's my business," the Muggle-born said haughtily. "But might I point out that my sitting with you isn't going to make your situation any worse?"

"How can you possibly know that?" snapped Pansy. "What if they think I've coerced you or something and come looking for payback?"

"Then I'll set them straight," Granger replied, and she held Pansy's glare, unruffled. She leaned forward slightly, her luminous brown eyes intent. "I won't tolerate them being idiots in my defense, especially when their efforts are unwarranted."

"Who says their efforts would be unwarranted, Granger?" Pansy rebuked, her voice cool.

Granger didn't even hesitate. She just sat back and shook her head with a sad, little smile. "I do, Parkinson," she said quietly, "because I know that you can't afford to make an enemy of me. Not in the current climate. Which is the reason why you haven't once called me a Mudblood during this conversation."

Pansy frowned, looking down at her Astronomy text without actually seeing it.

Granger was right, whether Pansy wanted to admit it or not; she had enough experience in political maneuvering thanks to her years in Slytherin to understand that. If she plucked even one frizzy hair from Granger's lion mane or uttered a single slur in her direction, she would have a horde of angry Gryffindors to deal with. Hell, not just Gryffindors—the entire school would turn against her, even more so than they already had. At least right now, Pansy thought, the majority of the attacks she was suffering were opportunistic, not planned, and thus considerably less vicious than they could be.

And it wasn't as though Granger herself didn't have teeth. Shuddering, she remembered what had happened to Marietta Edgecombe when she crossed Granger in their fifth year; Pansy was admittedly a vain young woman, and the idea of having a pimple-lettered word branded across her forehead was decidedly unappealing.

When she looked back up at Granger, she'd made her choice. She gave the girl a curt nod.

"A truce, then?" Granger suggested, the picture of nonchalance.

Pansy's eyebrows lifted in surprise. "That's going a bit farther than sitting at a table without trying to hex one another, Granger," she pointed out.

"Yes, it is," the Muggle-born agreed. She rolled her eyes, a spark of impatience finally marring her collected air. "Just take the offer already, Parkinson, even if it's just to spite them all."

Pansy couldn't help but smirk at the idea, picturing the looks on her tormentors' faces when they saw her in the presence of their precious heroine and were unable to do anything about it. That image in mind, she reached a hand out to said heroine, donning her best sneer. "All right, Granger," she answered. "You have yourself a truce."

Granger accepted the hand, and the perfect Cheshire grin on her lips was very much the one of the cat who'd caught the canary.

"Excellent," the Gryffindor agreed, all chipper, and as she watched Granger return to her equations before bringing her own gaze down onto the page of her tome that detailed the astrological characteristics of Mercury, Pansy suddenly couldn't help but wonder what she'd gotten herself into.


	3. The Ultimatum

**A/N: Thank you to all of those people who reviewed the previous chapters! Your comments have been very encouraging.**

 **Here is your next chapter; I hope you enjoy it!**

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If someone had told the fourteen-year-old Pansy that she would one day enjoy spending time in the library with Hermione Granger, she would have hexed that person something foul and taken it upon herself to make their life miserable for a week before finally demanding a formal apology.

And even after that, she probably would have held a grudge.

But damn her, it was the truth.

The two girls had, in the past few weeks, developed something of a routine. It consisted mainly of eating meals at their respective tables (Pansy alone and Granger with Longbottom and the Weaselette, as Draco had been so fond of calling her), attending their various classes, some of which they had together and others not, and meeting up in the library in between said meals and classes before heading back to their own common rooms after dinner most nights. Even on the weekends, the two of them spent the middle of the day together studying, completing their work, or, on the rare occasion, just simply reading.

And overall, it was quite tolerable—pleasant, even.

That being said, Pansy still hadn't the faintest idea why Granger wanted to spend time with her at all. That first day when she'd come up to Pansy at the table, it was clear that the Muggle-born still wasn't the fondest of her. While she'd been perfectly agreeable—eerily so, in fact—there had been an subtle kind of loathing in Granger's eyes, the type born from years of childhood enmity. But even in the short amount of time that they'd been spending together, that loathing had diminished, softened into something tamer. Sometimes, it even disappeared for a little while.

But that didn't mean that Granger _liked_ her. If anything, she seemed to tolerate Pansy, determined to be civil but to not go beyond that. They still sniped at one another when they looked up from their books for long enough to speak, but there was usually a careful kind of lightness to it, an understanding on both of their parts to not go too far, to respect the truce. And though she still didn't understand Granger's motives, Pansy was sure as hell not about to rock the boat.

Because Granger had been right; being around her had done much more good than bad for Pansy's situation. The glares had gotten worse, yes, but the number of hexes she was sent in the corridors seemed to be slowly decreasing because no one dared come near her when she was around Granger; instead, they just looked at the pair of them strangely. Actually, the way they looked at Granger was pathetic, really, when Pansy thought about it. Most of the students just seemed confused, but some had the gall to look _hurt,_ even _betrayed._ It made Pansy want to laugh and punch something at the same time. Just what did they think, that Granger was hanging out with Voldemort reincarnate?

 _That's exactly what they think,_ whispered that insidious voice in the back of her head, the one that sounded suspiciously like Madam. _They think you're an evil, little bitch who has somehow managed to corrupt their heroine and turn her to the dark side._

Aloud, as she walked idly back to the Slytherin dormitory from supper, immersed in her thoughts, Pansy snorted. _As if,_ she mused to herself. Goodie-Two-Shoes Granger would sooner die—hell, she'd proven that much. Besides, if anyone was doing the influencing out of the two of them, it was Granger. Pansy had been practically _swotty_ so far this year. All of her assignments after that first week had been handed in on time, if not early, and she'd been getting better grades in her N.E.W.T.-level courses than she had even before schoolwork had gotten so much more difficult and time-consuming.

See, the more time Pansy spent with Granger, the less she was harassed, and when she was with Granger, they did school stuff.

Granger even helped her sometimes, which was weird. At first, Pansy had outright rejected the gesture, too proud to accept help, but when Granger had called her on it, there hadn't been a point to fighting her anymore. Pansy would've just looked like a pouty, imbecilic child, and Granger would have kept at her like a dog on a bone until she gave in. Better to do so sooner rather than later, before they both embarrassed themselves too badly.

But anyways—she was getting sidetracked. The point was that Granger was having way more of an impact on Pansy than vice versa, so the denizens of Gryffindor House could calm their goddamned Hippogriffs. The worst that Granger might pick up from her was a potty mouth, and that, she knew the Gryffs could deal with just fine, judging by some of the things she'd heard coming from their mouths over the past month or so, usually directed at her.

 _Oh, shite,_ Pansy came to a sudden stop as a thought streaked through her mind. _Speaking of Hippogriffs_ — _I forgot to take out that bloody Care of Magical Creatures text that Granger recommended. And I really wanted to get started on that essay tonight._ She sighed, turning _. Fuck it, I'll go back and grab it. There's still plenty of time before curfew_ —

"Petrificus totalus!"

Taken completely unawares, Pansy had no time to defend herself as the curse struck her back, and so her limbs snapped together, stiffening like a slab of stone. For a moment she seemed to totter, and then she was falling face-first to the ground, only to land with a resounding _thud_. She heard the glass of the ink bottles in her bag shatter against the stone floor as it was dragged down with her, and if she had been capable of doing so, she would have groaned.

 _Fuck,_ Pansy cursed silently, her panic beginning to rise as she waited, prone and helpless. _Shite, shite, shite._ _I knew that this was going to happen and I let my_ bleeding _guard down like an idiot. I should have fucking known better. I should have known that Granger was too bloody optimistic._ Pansy grew even more distressed as slowly, her body began to levitate from the ground, and she felt herself being moved through the air, the tiles seeming to slide by underneath her as she was forced to stare straight down.

 _Wait a moment,_ she realized, _they're bringing me to the common room! Someone from Slytherin is behind this?!_

"Ambitio vincit," sounded a dull baritone, and Pansy heard the telltale creak of the hinges of the portrait as she was floated inside the common room. An emerald carpet passed into Pansy's field of vision and then she was still, just hovering over the ground, waiting for the inevitable conflict that was sure to ensue.

"Ah, Fawley, Shafiq!"

The faux-angelic lilt made Pansy want to vomit; all the same, though, she recognized its owner and just like that, she understood.

"Flip her over and set her down on the sofa, please," continued Daphne Greengrass with an affected, aristocratic air to her voice. One of either Craig Fawley or Syed Shafiq did as instructed and Pansy's stomach lurched as she was spun onto her back and launched to the side onto the leather sofa. Once her head had stopped spinning, Pansy's eyes adjusted to the new view. Above her, fluttering, otherworldly patterns of green light adorned the ceiling thanks to the window facing the Lake, and she could make out faint cracks in the stone, reminders of the Battle of months past.

Pansy's train of thought was interrupted by that same cloying tone.

"That's perfect! Thank you ever so much, boys. Miss Parkinson and I are going to have a little chat—you know, girl talk. Boring stuff. You might as well run along!"

Pansy heard the shuffle of reluctant footsteps and then, abruptly, the sofa shifted beneath her and the pale, blue-eyed face of Daphne Greengrass slid into her vision. The girl gave Pansy a grin, and her teeth may as well have been icicles for how cold it was.

"You'll have to excuse my two new...acquaintances," Greengrass said with a simper. "They're a little rough, but they are also wonderfully loyal, and that rather makes up for it if you ask me. You know, I think Syed may even have a crush on me. It's quite adorable." Greengrass giggled, and the sound grated Pansy's already stretched nerves. "I tried not to encourage it too much, but the boy is just so persistent. It's a shame he's only a fifth year. Propriety dictates I have to wait a little while before I snatch him up, and I fully intend to do so. The Shafiq family fortune is rather impressive, you know, and that boy is so malleable that I could bend him in half with the back of a teaspoon. Plus, his family is one of the few of— _ours_ —left, that doesn't also have a tainted name. It's all fantastically convenient.

"But enough about me." Greengrass laughed again and her straight, long hair tickled Pansy's face as the blonde leaned down to look her rival straight in the eye. "We're here to talk about you.

"You see, there are whispers, Pansy. Whispers that Slytherin House is up to something with Hermione Granger, that you're trying to initiate her into some Junior Death Eater group that we've supposedly been forming. Some are even saying you've Imperiused her!

"They're all ridiculous, of course; we're not interested in that kind of movement anymore, and you don't have enough skill or brainpower to be able to hoodwink the likes of Granger." Greengrass smiled at Pansy; the expression was saccharine, like tea laced with arsenic.

"But that doesn't matter, does it, Parkinson? Because once the rumour mill in this place starts churning, whispers spread like Fiendfyre, and they're just as hard to control, to rein in. And I can't have the school turning against the whole lot of Slytherin again. There's a fragile peace in place at the moment, thanks in no small part to me, and I intend to keep it that way.

"And as things currently stand, you, Pansy—you are a threat to that peace.

"So. Here's how this is going to go." The words were said lowly, all false humour discarded. The simpering, the show of cordiality, they'd disappeared in the bat of an eyelid. Left in their place was the icy ruthlessness that Pansy knew was the true face of Daphne Greengrass.

"You're going to stop associating with Granger," she ordered, her stare boring into Pansy's eyes. "I don't know or care how you intend to make that happen, but you will do whatever it takes, or I swear to Morgana, I will make your life here such a living hell that by the end of the year, you'll want to follow in Theodore's footsteps, if you take my meaning. This House can turn against you in the blink of an eye, Pansy, and you know what happens when it does perhaps even better than I do. After all," Greengrass leered at her, "you used to be me, isn't that right?"

There was a pause.

"Well, then. I'll just leave you here to think about that, shall I?" Greengrass crooned, the girlish facade slipping back on seamlessly, as though it had never been gone in the first place. She stood from the sofa, leaning over Pansy so that the frozen girl could see her smug smile. "The Body-Bind will wear off in an hour or two, I imagine.

"Have a good night, Pansy—and sweet dreams."

And with that, Greengrass turned and walked away, and Pansy had no choice but to listen to her echoing footsteps as she lied on the sofa, immobile and thoroughly chilled.


	4. The Confrontation

**A/N: Hello all! Thank you to all those who have reviewed :) and welcome to all of the newcomers to the story. Here's the next chapter - let's see what Pansy does in response to Greengrass's threats. I hope you enjoy it and are excited to see where the plot is headed.**

* * *

Pansy didn't get a wink of sleep that night. Even after the Body-Bind curse wore off and she was able to head back to her room, she wound up staring at the forest-green canopy above her head until dawn, weighing the pros and cons of staying silent against telling Granger what had happened.

Granger might not even believe Pansy if she told her what Greengrass had done. Daphne had always kept her head down before this year, and even if she could be cold to the students of other Houses, she was nonetheless rigidly polite in public, and she'd never visibly caused trouble.

She hadn't been a bully like Draco and his gang but had instead worked behind the scenes to accomplish her goals, and thus her machinations had gone largely unnoticed, preserving her reputation as one of the few morally upright Slytherins in the eyes of outsiders. Pansy wasn't sure if Granger had seen through the facade, and if she hadn't, it might prove difficult to convince her that it _was_ a facade at all.

But even assuming that she could, Pansy thought to herself, then what would happen? It wasn't as if Granger could do anything about it, not without getting herself mixed up in house politics, and since Granger had plenty of sense, it was quite unlikely that she'd do something like that—especially when it was just to help out Pansy. Granger wasn't invincible; if she was seen mingling with the likes of Pansy, the _wrong_ sort, and that news got out to the public, there could be backlash. At the very least, Granger would be seen as helplessly naive. At worst, she could be accused of being a sympathizer of the old ways, as ludicrous as that may sound. Pansy didn't doubt that, properly motivated, Greengrass could pull that off.

Who would risk so much for a social pariah, especially one who deserved their lot? Surely Granger's motives for seeking Pansy out wouldn't extend so far as to warrant her embroiling herself in Pansy's troubles on the girl's behalf.

And, to be quite frank, Pansy was scared. She could admit that to herself. She didn't want to wait and see what Greengrass had up those silk sleeves of hers, because it was obvious that whatever it was, Pansy wouldn't like it.

Greengrass didn't make threats lightly. That was one of the first things that the smart ones in Slytherin caught on to—only make a threat if you can deliver on it.

In the end, after wavering back and forth between options for hours, a resigned Pansy decided to give Granger the cold shoulder.

 _Or, maybe not the cold shoulder,_ she thought, but to gradually distance herself from Granger. Maybe if she did it slowly enough, Granger would get tired of Pansy's excuses and leave her alone. She could pretend she was ill at first, and then keep steadily avoiding Granger until Granger forgot about her. Surely there were enough other people vying for her attention that she wouldn't have much time to dwell on Pansy's absence.

And Pansy would go back to fending for herself. She felt tired and saddened and angry at the prospect, but resolute all the same. She'd been relying too much on Granger anyway; the Gryffindor had become a crutch for Pansy, and as soon as graduation was over and Granger went away to do whatever caught her fancy—because no doubt she could do anything she put her mind to—she would leave Pansy in the dust. It was inevitable. They weren't even really friends, for Merlin's sake!

 _Yes,_ thought Pansy as she stood under the spray of scalding water in her shower, lathering her hair as she came to her final decision. _This is for the best._

An hour later, when she could stall no longer and her stomach was protesting by means of aching pangs of hunger, Pansy finally made her way down to breakfast in the Great Hall.

As she passed through the doorway into the Hall, Pansy kept her head down, hurrying to her lone place at the Slytherin table. Once seated, she fixed her eyes on her plate and the food in front of her, determined not to look at either Granger or Greengrass. Pansy poured herself a small goblet of pumpkin juice and knocked it back in one go, and then grabbed a blueberry scone and an apple, conjured a small sack to stow them away in for later, and tucked it away into her book bag.

Overcome by nervous jitters, Pansy got up from the table despite having spent less than two minutes sitting there, and instead began to walk out of the Hall in the same way as before: quickly, with her eyes downcast.

She mentally rattled off pleas to Merlin and Morgana and Circe for her exit to go unnoticed, but, as was typical for Pansy as of late, they went unanswered.

"Parkinson!" called Granger, her voice unexpectedly close, and the pumpkin juice in Pansy's stomach seemed to instantly congeal, leaving her nauseous. "Wait up a second."

Pansy refused to slow down, but it didn't make a difference. Granger was at her side in seconds, nudging her gently with her elbow. "Parkinson, have you gone deaf? I've called your name three times now."

"Oh," muttered Pansy. "Did you, Granger? Sorry, I'm a little distracted—not feeling well."

"I figured that might be it," replied the Muggle-born witch sympathetically. "I saw you didn't eat much at breakfast. Wondered if you might be feeling nauseous."

Pansy normally would have used that tidbit as an opportunity to make a snide remark about Granger not being able to take her eyes off of her, but today she didn't even acknowledge the comment beyond a jerky nod. She remained silent as she and Granger walked towards the library. Then, in a split-second decision, she stopped.

"Granger, I can't come with you to the library today. I feel fucking _wretched,_ to be honest. I think I'm going to go back to bed until after lunch; after all, it's just free periods for me this morning."

"Oh." Granger looked a little stunned at that. "Okay, Parkinson, I'm sorry to hear that. But maybe stop by the hospital wing and get a pick-me-up from Madam Pomfrey—"

"Yeah, I will," Pansy interrupted. "Look, I have to go, Granger, I think I'm going to be sick, so...bye."

Pansy turned on her heel and ducked down the corridor leading back to the Slytherin common room, taking small, quick strides. From behind her, Granger shouted, "I'll see you later, then, yeah? Hope you feel better!"

Pansy's stomach turned in shame and suddenly, having to vomit became a very real possibility.

* * *

Pansy tried to get some work done in her room, but her mind couldn't seem to settle. She tried writing an essay, she tried drawing a starchart, she tried everything, but no matter what she did, she just kept seeing that stunned look on Granger's face and micro-analyzing it over and over again.

Why had Granger been so shocked? Circe, wasn't a girl allowed to be sick without riling up suspicion? Why had she insisted on seeing Pansy later? Had Pansy been too obvious about not wanting to see her, or was Granger actually, genuinely worried about Pansy's well-being? And what did Granger's reaction mean for Pansy's plan going forward?

And then, most importantly: how in the blazing hell was Pansy going to face Granger come Transfiguration at three thirty?

The Slytherin witch flipped a page of one of her textbooks and, after her third fruitless attempt to absorb any of what she was reading, violently slammed the tome shut and hurled it at the dormitory wall. It hit the stone with a _SMACK!_ and thudded to the floor as Pansy buried her face in a pillow and screamed.

* * *

By midday, Pansy was completely exhausted from her sleepless night, and so she buckled and took Granger's advice, sweeping up to the hospital wing to request a Pepper-Up Potion from the matron. Madam Pomfrey had studied her distrustfully, and when she was satisfied that Pansy was actually just extremely tired and didn't intend to use the potion for nefarious purposes (though, admittedly, how one could use the Pepper-Up Potion for nefarious purposes escaped Pansy), she finally gave the student a dose of the stuff, sniffing occasionally in disdain throughout their exchange.

Pansy had to exercise impressive restraint to stop herself from asking the old biddy if _she_ needed some of the Pepper-Up as well, seeing as the woman _clearly_ had a runny nose.

The last thing Pansy needed at this point was detention.

After fleeing Pomfrey's scornful gaze, Pansy cast a _Tempus_ and, seeing the time, swore and took off for Transfiguration. On the way there she was tripped twice, once by a Gryffindor sixth year and once by Fawley, who hissed at her to "remember what Miss Greengrass told you, bitch." There was the odd hex here and there, too, and while Pansy was normally good at dodging them, her scattered state of mind (Pepper-Up could only do so much) was a hindrance to her reflexes, and it cost her.

Thus, it was a thoroughly irritated and harassed Pansy that entered the Transfiguration classroom five minutes late. The new professor, a French witch named Elise Beauchamps, paused in the midst of her lecture and after scanning Pansy's disheveled appearance just shook her head sadly and told her student to quickly take a seat. The woman was kind and mercifully unbiased, and Pansy thanked her lucky stars that McGonagall wasn't teaching Transfiguration anymore.

Pansy went up the rows and felt her stomach sink when she saw that the only available spot was, of course, at the back of the class, beside Granger.

 _Suck it up,_ _Parkinson,_ she snapped at herself silently before plunking her arse down in the open seat.

"Parkinson," Granger greeted her with a cautious smile, her voice low so as avoid drawing the professor's attention. "How are you feeling? Did you get in to see Madam Pomfrey?"

"Not much better, really," Pansy muttered back. "I saw her and she took care of me, but the potions don't really seem to be helping."

"That's strange," said Granger, frowning. "Well, I'm sorry you're not feeling well, but maybe after class, we can go somewhere more comfortable than the library to study or do work or whatever—because I know you have that Astronomy assignment due that you haven't finished—"

"It's nice of you to offer, Granger," Pansy cut her off, "but I don't think that's a good idea."

"Parkinson—"

"Look, I'm not up for it today, okay Granger? So just leave well enough alone!"

"Miss Parkinson, Miss Granger, is something wrong back there?" called Professor Beauchamps, shooting them a part-annoyed, part-worried look.

"No, Professor," Granger answered calmly. "Our apologies." That was enough to assuage the Frenchwoman, who nodded and resumed her lecture for the second time.

The two girls sat in silence for the next couple hours of class. Pansy refused to look at Granger but nevertheless caught peripheral glimpses of the other witch eyeing her peculiarly. Granger didn't push though; she just took her usual meticulous notes and answered a few of the questions Beauchamps put to the class. Pansy eventually began to relax, cautiously optimistic that Granger would do as asked and just leave her alone.

She should have known better.

Eventually, the chimes of the clock tower echoed through the castle at six o'clock and Professor Beauchamps dismissed her students before bee-lining out of the classroom, muttering about an appointment with the Headmistress. As Pansy hastily cleaned off her desk and began to re-pack her bag, Granger finally spoke up.

"So, Parkinson...who got to you?"

Pansy's jaw clenched. She opened her mouth to spit out some half-formed rebuke, but the witch cut her off.

"Don't try to deny it. You're not really sick. If you were, then Madam Pomfrey would have taken care of it and you'd either be fine now or in the hospital wing. And we didn't have a spat or anything, so I know it wasn't something I did that's making you act this way." Granger glanced around and then lowered her voice from a murmur to a hiss. "That means that someone's told you to stay away from me, and they've done a good job of it, too."

Pansy scoffed at that, but even she knew that it wasn't very convincing. All of her things collected, she got up from her seat and stalked out of the classroom with Granger hot on her heels.

"Tell me," Granger demanded, her footfalls speeding up. Pansy refused to answer.

The Slytherin made it halfway down the hall before fingers circled her wrist and jerked her back. She turned and gave Granger her best heated glare, but the Muggle-born witch didn't even flinch; instead, Granger just returned the glare, her cheeks flushed red with frustration at Pansy's reticence and worry as clear in her eyes as her anger.

Confronted with Granger's impatience and feeling her own frustration mounting, Pansy suddenly felt very weary. She sighed, her shoulders slumping a bit with the motion.

 _Fuck it,_ she thought. _Granger can't be deterred. She'll never stop pestering me at this rate. It's no use._

Pansy glanced around furtively, and, seeing that no one was about the corridor to witness her actions, and in one frantic move, she seized Granger's elbow and yanked her into a nearby broom closet. Granger closed the door behind them and locked it, plunging the pair of them into total darkness. Within seconds, she and Pansy had conjured several small floating lanterns so that they didn't have to have their conversation in the dark.

When Pansy had finished her bit and looked up to see Granger staring at her with one eyebrow quirked, she sighed.

"Fine, Granger," she spat, "I'll tell you what that happened. But don't say I didn't try to keep you out of it."

And so, Pansy spilled the whole miserable fucking story. She told Granger what living in Slytherin House had been like so far this year, how Daphne had taken over, about the rumours that had started about Pansy and Granger, and about Daphne's little display the night before.

By the time she was done, Granger was contemplating the floor, clearly deep in thought.

"So," said Granger with a nod, looking up at Pansy expectantly, "Daphne Greengrass." Her companion stared at her blankly.

"What about her?" blurted Pansy, baffled.

"Well, what are we going to do about her?" demanded Granger, giving her a look that seemed to say _don't be absurd, Parkinson._ "I don't know what the best way is to go about this, though I suppose we'll have to start with what she really wanted—"

"We?" Pansy interrupted, incredulous.

"Well, of course," replied Granger, her brow furrowing in reproach. "What, you thought you'd tell me this just to let me know that the reason why you're avoiding me isn't actually because you hate me, but because you're being threatened, and then I'd just leave you to fend for yourself?" Pansy glared at her obstinately and Granger seemed to take that for confirmation, because she scoffed, "Oh, don't act like an idiot, Parkinson, it doesn't suit you."

"Piss off, Granger," Pansy snarled, crossing her arms instinctively. "Why in Merlin's name would you want to help me if it means causing trouble for yourself? I've been a complete bitch to you and I'm scum to _everyone_ here, now; I'm not worth it."

Pansy's breath caught in surprise as Granger took a step into her personal space, their bodies only an inch or so apart. The Muggle-born witch seemed to peer into Pansy's eyes and Pansy couldn't help but stare at Granger's in return. Gold and orange and brown and black, her irises seem to burn like embers in the soft, yellow light of the lantern overhead. They were fucking _enigmatic,_ Pansy thought to herself, entranced and exasperated with herself all at once.

"I told you not to act like an idiot, Parkinson," Granger murmured, putting a gentle hand on one of Pansy's wrists and giving her a tiny, warm smile. "You're not scum to me. I thought I'd shown you that already, but I'm obviously going to have to hammer it into that thick skull of yours a little bit harder."

"Do you always insult a person's intelligence when you're trying to be nice to them?" asked Pansy sharply, trying to deflect Granger's attention from her flushed cheeks. "Because it's really charming, really gets the point across."

"It also seems to be the only way you can absorb a compliment, Pansy," Granger told her quietly, and Pansy felt something leap in her chest when Granger used her given name for the first time. "Every time I try to be straightforward about one, you dismiss me outright, so I have to couple them with insults to get you to listen."

"Why would you mean them, though?" asked Pansy. Her eyes were burning in their sockets, and she blinked desperately, trying to keep those scalding tears at bay.

Granger gaped at her in bemusement, and then before Pansy could react, the Gryffindor had pulled Pansy's arms away from her chest and enveloped the Slytherin in a tight hug.

"Merlin, Pansy," Granger whispered into her ear, her warm breath fluttering through the short locks of Pansy's bob, "You can be so daft." Granger withdrew slightly, not stepping out of the embrace but backing up enough so that she could look Pansy straight in the eye. "I mean them because first of all, they're true, and second of all, _I like you,_ Pansy. I thought you knew that. I didn't at first, true. I mean, yes, you're right, you used to be horrible to me," Granger snorted. "But these past couple of weeks or so, I thought we'd become friends. Was I wrong? Have I misjudged things?"

Pansy stared at her, wide-eyed. "But you're always so...withdrawn...when we're spending time together," she spluttered, totally out of her depth with the conversation they were having. "I thought you were just putting up with me, for whatever your mysterious 'reasons' were."

Granger laughed, and it was a strange, breathy sound that seemed oddly distraught. "Oh, I've been an idiot, too," the Muggle-born said, more to herself than to Pansy, it seemed. "Of course you would think that; everyone's been horrible to you and me being nice to you is weird enough in the first place, I can understand that. Okay. Listen, Pansy. The reason I've been guarded around you is because I didn't want to push you too far too fast. I want to be your friend, but you always seem so afraid of showing any kind of vulnerability that it makes it hard to know what I can say without offending you or scaring you off.

"See, the truth is, I think you're pretty great." Pansy scrunched her eyebrows at that and Granger laughed at her. "Seriously, Parkinson, I mean it. You're hilarious, first of all. When you're not doing that weird Pure-blood mask thing that you people all seem to do, you have absolutely _no_ filter and you swear like a trooper. You're blunt and you're honest, and that's extremely refreshing to me.

"You're also smarter than everyone, including yourself, gives you credit for. I've seen your work. You're innovative, Pansy. You might not be the best at the whole rote memorization thing, but you've got brilliant ideas, and you communicate them very clearly, which is half the battle in and of itself.

"And then, there's the fact that you're strong as hell. It just rolls off you. I don't know exactly what it is you've been through over the past few years, Pansy, but I bet it's been hell—and yet you still chose to come back this year after everything that happened, knowing full well, I'm sure, that people would hate you and try to make your life miserable.

"I really admire that you did it anyways, and part of why I came up to you in the first place was because I thought that it took real courage for you to make the decision to return to Hogwarts, and that, maybe, if you were _that_ brave, there would be other good things about you, too."

Granger smiled at Pansy. "Turns out I was right."

Pansy's eyes stung hotly and before she knew it, she was returning Granger's embrace, burrowing her nose into that wild hair. Granger smelled like apples and cinnamon, Pansy noted absently as she tried her very best not to cry.

"I'm not letting you deal with this on your own, Pansy," Granger told her, rubbing soothing circles into the sweater over Pansy's back. "I'll help you figure something out on your terms, okay? You're going to get through this, and I'm going to be there with you as you do it."

Pansy nodded through her silent sobs of relief, laughing as a belligerent hiccough made its way up and out of her throat. She felt Granger's chest shake with gentle laughter, and for the first time since her arrival at Hogwarts, Pansy didn't feel alone anymore.

"Thank you, Granger," she whispered. "Thank you—Hermione."


	5. The Snake

**A/N: Hello all! Thanks for the absolutely lovely reviews, as well as for the favourites and follows. I'm ecstatic that so many people are enjoying the story!**

 **Just to address the question of where Harry is for those who haven't guessed, as it has come up once or twice in reviews and PMs: Harry and Ron aren't attending Hogwarts—they accepted Kingsley's offer to join the Aurors. That will be mentioned at some point down the line when we see some correspondence between Harry and Hermione, as well as between Draco and Pansy (because Drarry has to be introduced at some point ;)). But all that another time.**

 **Here is the next chapter, featuring a new POV. I hope you enjoy it!**

 **P. S. I'll try to update a bit sooner next time ;)**

* * *

Daphne Greengrass strode along the third floor corridor, flanked by Tracey Davis and Craig Fawley's sister, Cynthia, the three of them headed down to the Great Hall for supper after Daphne's last class of the week.

 _This has been an_ excellent _day_ , she thought to herself smugly. She'd won a total of twenty points for Slytherin, found a potential ally in Ravenclaw, and had her favourite meal at lunch (well, favourite Hogwarts meal—obviously, the house elves at Greengrass Estate had superior culinary skills to the Hogwarts elves, but Yorkshire pudding was hard to botch).

But best of all: that poisonous little bitch, Pansy Parkinson _,_ had finally been put in her place.`

It had been several days since Fawley and Shafiq had dragged Parkinson in for their little discussion, and ever since then, Pansy had been as skittish as a spooked horse. She spent as little time as possible at the Slytherin table at meals, stayed out of the library and away from any common areas outside of classes, and cowered away from Daphne whenever the two of them were in the same room. It was incredibly gratifying to watch.

Pansy had walked all over Daphne when she'd been in power and now, it was Daphne's time for retribution.

Davis and Fawley's nattering brought Daphne out of her reverie; their voices had climbed to an obnoxiously high pitch.

 _If I don't get away from them as soon as possible, I'm going to rip Cynthia's tongue out_ , Daphne thought to herself, hiding a grimace at Fawley's insipid giggling. That girl was just as idiotic as brother and although her stupidity had its benefits, it was also a frequent irritant.

"Tracey," Daphne interjected at the first opportunity, tone honey-sweet, slowing her pace to a halt, "why don't you and Cynthia go down to the Great Hall without me? I'll meet you there, all right? I just want to freshen up in the loo. Save me my usual seat, yeah?"

"Sure, Daph," Tracey replied easily, and Daphne had to stop herself from wincing at the nickname. "Daph" sounded far too close to "daft" in her opinion. Cynthia nodded vigorously in agreement as Tracey smiled at Daphne, the hint of confusion in her eyes not enough to prompt her to ask questions. "Not a problem," she went on, oblivious to her friend's annoyance. "See you in a few."

Daphne gave the pair of them a large, reassuring smile and waved, heading down the corridor to the lavatory as her lackeys continued on their way to the Great Hall. As soon as she'd turned away from them and her face was hidden from view, Daphne let the cordial expression slide right off and rolled her eyes.

Daphne hated this, this new order of things where she was forced to play allies with half-bloods like Davis and what plebeians and foreigners were left of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, like the Fawleys and Shafiqs. After all, the Greengrass family was as supportive of blood purity as the Malfoys and the Parkinsons and the Notts and the Crabbes and the Goyles had been. Her parents had only decided to remain neutral in the war because of their unfailing sense of pragmatism and their general distaste for the Death Eaters' brand of extreme violence.

 _Well,_ Daphne chided herself, _those weren't quite the_ only _reasons_ , _were they?_ Below the guise of their sound rationale, she'd sensed her parents' true reservations had to do with the idea of the purity movement being led by an upstart half-blood, even if it was one who had the blood of Salazar Slytherin running through his veins.

No, Voldemort's organization had not appealed to Daphne's family. The Greengrasses were in favour of a more subtle, systemic approach to Pure-blood supremacy, one that was much more difficult to root out, buried as it was by bribed and blackmailed officials under mountains of Ministry paperwork.

But this new epoch on the horizon, with the ridiculously nicknamed "Golden Trio" and Kingsley Shacklebolt at its helm—it did not bode well for the future of even the more shrewd of the remaining Pure-blood powerhouses. The Ministry would have to be very carefully maneuvered from here on out, especially if the likes of Granger were to enter the D.M.L.E. in the coming years and start leafing through mounds of legislation with a fine-toothed comb.

Hence, a new front for the remaining blood purists was necessary; and so, the moderate traditionalist movement would be born, made up of members of the old guard clinging to what remained of their power but desperate to save face with the general populace. It would attract all of the half-bloods who secretly longed to be Pure-blooded, as well as the minor families of the Sacred Twenty-Eight.

And it would be led by the Greengrasses, whose Wizengamot seat Daphne would assume when her father eventually decided to step down.

Of course, their public image would be one of peaceful conservatism; an expressed sympathy for the plight of Muggle-borns, tempered by a legitimate concern surrounding the importance of upholding of the International Statute of Secrecy.

And this kind of philosophy would be appealing to even blood traitors like the Weasleys, Daphne knew, because when it really came down to it, they were hypocrites. They viewed Muggle-borns as curious, exotic objects of fascination and were happy to treat them with a surface-level civility, and even form friendships with some of them; but in truth, they were wary of the Muggle world that those people came from, a world that they didn't understand and that seemed to evolve so much more quickly than their own. A world, in essence, of which they desired no part.

Thus, underneath all of their pleasantries and progressive rhetoric, those witches and wizards of magical descent were terrified that if they let Muggle-borns rise high enough into power, they would bring an avalanche of change into the magical world and transform it forever, for better or for worse. And most _would_ assume for worse, Daphne reflected, because Wizarding Britain was staunchly conservative, and so change and unorthodoxy were almost always viewed in a skeptical or even suspicious light.

Daphne's inner musings subsided as she approached the door to the girls' lavatory. She looked down as she reached a hand out to push her way into the loo, rummaging in her book-bag for her cosmetics and—

Daphne felt a surge of magic strike her back and whirled on the spot, her gaze flitting around wildly in an attempt to find her aggressor. She brandished her wand, opening her mouth to cast a _Homenum revelio;_ but even as she spoke, no sound escaped her lips. By the time she'd realized that what'd hit her was a nonverbal silencing spell, she was struck once more by a brilliant streak of light. Unable to scream and too shocked to think of trying anything else, Daphne let herself be pulled into the empty classroom opposite the lavatory by some kind of Summoning spell, and listened in dread as its door clicked shut behind her.

The classroom's desks had all been pushed out of the way so that only a single chair remained in the center of the room. Daphne was promptly flung down onto the seat, Disarmed, and relieved of her book-bag. Her heart pounding, Daphne made no move to escape, knowing that any such attempts would be pointless and likely humiliating.

No; she would just have to wait and see what was going on. Thankfully, she didn't have to wait long.

" _Finite_ ," intoned a strong, clear, and recognizable voice from somewhere behind her, and another echoed the incantation, its timbre a tad lower and even more familiar to Daphne than the first.

 _Well, well, well,_ the cornered witch mused, intrigued in spite of her precarious predicament. _Now_ this _is going to be interesting._

With deliberately slow steps, Daphne's ambushers approached her from behind, but Daphne didn't bother to look round, already certain of their identities. And sure enough, Hermione Granger walked into view on Daphne's right, and immediately behind her followed Pansy Parkinson.

"Well," started the Gryffindor pleasantly, "look at this. If it isn't the snake in the grass, come to greet us with her presence." As she spoke, Granger smiled down at the proverbial snake with a set of eerily perfect, white teeth. "Hello, Daphne. It's nice to finally have a real discussion with you. We don't cross paths very often, do we? Rather odd, isn't it, given that we're in the same year and have been at school together for, what, six going on seven years? Well, for me, at least." Granger grinned apologetically, the expression entirely hollow. "Forgive me, I don't tend to count last year. Extenuating circumstances and all that."

Daphne returned the grin with one of her own, keeping her eyes wide and innocent and the rest of her features relaxed.

"Well, I don't know, Granger," she replied sweetly. "I don't think it's that strange. After all, our Houses haven't exactly had a friendly relationship over the years, even in the best of times. But I'm sure you're aware of that; and seeing as you've conveniently arranged things so that we're all here now, I'd just _love_ to chat with you if, of course, that's what you've brought me here for."

"Cut the shite, Daphne," spat Pansy from Granger's left, not giving her companion the chance to respond. _How typical,_ thought Daphne, thoroughly enjoying her rival's impatience. _Pansy, as always, has no appreciation for some good repartee._

Pansy went on, her voice sharp, her words clipped and heated. "Granger knows what happened and I've told her what you're like, Daphne. So why don't you save us all some time, and then we might even be able to make it to supper before they switch out the main course for pudding."

Daphne glanced from Parkinson's glare over to Granger's impassiveness and back again. She allowed her smile to morph from saccharine to threatening as her lips pulled themselves tighter over her teeth and formed a leer.

"Sounds reasonable," she remarked, dark humour oozing from the words. "I'd hate to keep you from the feast, Pansy, and deny you the chance to put some meat back on those bones of yours." She let the leer widen before assuming a cloying expression of concern. "You've lost weight over the past week. Have you not been eating much?"

Pansy bared her teeth. "You're such a bitch, Greengrass. But you fell for it, didn't you, my little scaredy-cat routine? Lulling you into a false sense of security has been a pleasure," she hissed, "knowing that I'd be wiping that smug, little smirk off your face in due time."

That irked Daphne. "Well, in any case...I didn't take you for a snitch, Parkinson," she replied coldly, watching her housemate with narrowed eyes. "Running to Granger—really? She might be able to control the Gryffs for now, and maybe even half of the Puffs and some of Ravenclaw, but she has no control over Slytherin. This is an incredibly short-sighted move on your part. I'm disappointed in you, Pansy." Daphne crooned the taunt maliciously, savouring the hatred in Parkinson's eyes.

"Oh, don't blame Pansy for my finding you out, Daphne," Granger cut the blonde off as her lips twisted wryly. Daphne lifted an eyebrow, exuding patronizing skepticism as she stared down Gryffindor's reluctant darling. "Blame me," Granger went on, ignoring the look, "Or better yet, blame yourself. You've made some hasty assumptions about me, and that's what's led to this misstep."

"Assumptions?" Daphne repeated, amused. "Pray tell me, Granger, what assumptions have I allegedly made?" she asked loftily.

"You assumed that I would be okay with seeing Pansy go back to the way she was the first week or so of term, subjected to the disgusting abuse that was reigned down on her—that your House did nothing to stop, incidentally. You thought that I wouldn't notice that she was trying to distance herself and that I would just let her go without a second thought." Granger's smile widened. "And you were wrong."

"Oh, how quaint! The great war heroine Hermione Granger has taken Death Eater sympathizer Pansy Parkinson under her protection." Daphne smiled, and the expression was viciously mocking. "That's one for the papers, I think! I wonder what that story would do to your credibility, Granger. People would think that you're incredibly naive if they found out, you know. The students here already do! They don't know _what_ to make of this." Daphne gestured flippantly between Granger and Parkinson. "I mean, trusting someone like Parkinson, someone who would have betrayed your best friend to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?" Daphne leaned forward, smiling up at the mudblood. "It's a very strange move, Granger, you have to admit."

"I'm not in the habit of letting other people's opinions phase me, Greengrass," Granger replied steadily; but under the facade of calmness, Daphne could tell that she was irritated. Granger had nothing on Daphne's experience in the discipline of deceit, and Daphne knew that little spark of anger when she saw it. "Still," Granger added, her tone light, "you might want to be a bit more wary of me, Daphne, because I would hate to have to deal with you if you insist on being a nuisance. I'd much rather spend my time preparing for my N.E.W.T.s."

Daphne was getting tired of this conversation, and the weakness of that threat made her laugh scornfully with impatience. "Oh, spare me, Granger," she retorted sharply. "You're a goodie-two-shoes to the core, you _and_ your little do-gooder friends. You're not going to do anything to me."

Granger stared at Daphne, her amber-brown eyes glinting with disbelief before she brought her gaze up to look at Parkinson. After an indefinitely long moment of silence, Granger tossed her head back...and started to laugh. Pansy joined in before long, shaking her head scornfully at Daphne.

"You really don't know anything about Granger, do you, Daphne?" Parkinson gasped through her giggles. "Oh, that's hilarious. You're completely out of your depth. And I thought you had some ulterior motive, too—but it turns out you're a simpleton after all." Daphne gritted her teeth, locking her jaw and staring straight ahead, refusing to meet either witch's gaze. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Granger shaking her head.

"I could bury you, Greengrass," the Gryffindor stated, all matter-of-fact, letting out a startlingly dark laugh. "All I have to do is tell my House that you've threatened me, or better yet, call up the Daily Prophet with an exclusive story about your behaviour. Goodness knows given the way they've been hassling me that they would jump at the opportunity to write that article." She chuckled. "I could even write Harry, get him to put a word in just to really drive the message home to the public. I wonder what that would do to _your_ credibility."

Granger took a few steps towards Daphne and leaned down a bit, looking at her with grim intent; and as the Slytherin stared into the Gryffindor's eyes, she caught a glimpse of a kind of ruthlessness that she hadn't known was present in the Muggle-born, and for the first time during the conversation, she felt distinctly uncomfortable.

There was a reason why Harry Potter was still alive, and that reason was at present very literally looming over Daphne.

"There's nothing wrong with being a goodie-two-shoes, Daphne, but all the same, don't _ever_ mistake me for one." Granger sighed, and the exhalation had a disappointed tone to it, as though she were a professor and Daphne, a promising student who'd written a lackluster essay.

"Let me make this simple for you," the bushy-haired witch suggested, her voice lowering. "Call off your bloodhounds, Greengrass—in fact, call off the whole of Slytherin, if you really have the level of influence you boast. Tell your housemates that Pansy is free to associate with whomever she'd like without repercussions."

Daphne opened her mouth to interrupt, but Granger cut her off, anticipating the remark.

"I'll deal with my House and the others, Daphne. They don't get a say in my choice of company and they ought to know it. I don't owe them anything; I've done enough. Anyone foolish enough to object to Pansy to my face won't know what hit them once I've done my bit, and anyone _imbecilic_ enough to go after her will soon come to regret their actions. Oh, and by the way, if you wanted to redeem Slytherin in the eyes of the other Houses, blackmailing the friend of the most influential person left in the school really wasn't the way to go about it. You could have just brought your concerns straight to me; I'm known for taking up the causes of the disenfranchised." Granger grinned. "After all, that's why you mistook me for a bleeding heart, isn't it?"

Daphne measured the young woman standing over her for a long moment and came to what now seemed a rather obvious conclusion.

 _Fuck_ , the Pure-blood witch thought to herself in a rare indulgence of profanity. _I've gone and underestimated her._

A flicker of amusement played across Granger's face, almost as though she'd heard Daphne's thoughts and was agreeing with her.

Granger gave one final, weary sigh. "Don't try me, Greengrass," she warned, a peculiar, weary kind of determination in her eyes, "and don't try Pansy, either. If you do, you won't enjoy the consequences. Of that I can assure you."

Granger glanced over at Parkinson, the fire in her eyes softening slightly their gazes met, and she tilted her head towards the door questioningly. When Pansy nodded, Granger waved her wand, levitating Daphne's wand and book-bag over to the desk at the front of the room and leaving them there for her to collect. Then, with one last scalding glare from Parkinson, the two witches exited the classroom.

 _Well,_ thought Daphne, a sneer curving her lips as she listened to the two girls' footfalls fade into the distance, _I may have underestimated Granger, yes; but she's made the same mistake with me._ Daphne couldn't help but chuckle. _Parkinson may be oblivious, but_ I _am not._

* * *

Pansy strode down the hall beside Granger, glancing at her newfound companion in her peripherals. Granger caught the look and gave Pansy a warm smile.

"I told you, Parkinson," she murmured, "I've got your back."

Pansy nodded, her gaze fixed firmly forward. "I know, Granger," she muttered in reply, "and I've got yours now, too. Good thing, really. We've made an enemy of Daphne Greengrass...we'll need to look out for each other."

Out of the corner of her eye, Pansy saw Granger consider that for a moment. Slowly, the Gryffindor nodded. "Yes, we will," she told Pansy resolutely, and the Slytherin witch fought back a grin as the two of them made their way down to the Great Hall for pudding.

* * *

 _ **Thanks for reading! Please leave a review if you can spare a moment. :)**_


	6. The Lesson

**A/N: Hello again! Thank you for your lovely feedback, as well as for the follows and favourites of all of the newcomers to the story.**

 ** _"I'll try to update a bit sooner,"_ she said. Never trust a writer, my friends. We have the best of intentions and the most unrealistic of expectations. From hereon out, I make no promises. This story will be updated only as my schedule allows it, and that is the unfortunate fact of the matter. **

**Just an FYI: yes, I did change my username from TheGirlDeepInThought to lizziebennetgonesolo, mainly so that my fanfic profile and Tumblr blog would have matching names.**

 **Let's get straight to it. Here's your next chapter; I hope you enjoy it.**

* * *

Pansy and Granger were at the library the next day, sitting together at their table as though the whole power play with Greengrass had never happened. Granger was nose-deep in her copy of the fourth edition of Advanced Potion-Making, Volume II and Pansy was writing an essay on the minutiae of conjuration for Transfiguration. Then again, "writing" was probably too generous a term to describe Pansy's productivity; her mind kept wandering away from Gamp and back to what had happened the previous day.

Pansy wasn't at all used to people sticking their necks out for her. That really wasn't the Slytherin way. The housemates she'd been friends with had been glad to help her seek retribution after the fact, but standing up for her in the moment, at the risk of their own necks? Forget it. Not even Draco had stood behind her when it really came down to it, because there was a universal understanding in their House: if you stir shite and you make a mess, it's yours to clean up.

In other words: every witch and wizard for themselves.

The only person who'd stuck with Pansy _at all_ was Millie, but she'd been to Pansy what Greg and Vince had been to Draco: a lackey, a hunk of muscle to make Pansy look more intimidating. Millie's show of silent support had been part of an unspoken contract wherein Pansy extended her elevated social status to Millie and Millie backed Pansy in order to continue enjoying the perks of that status. The Slytherin girls both in and below their year had deferred to the pair of them thanks to the combination of Pansy's ruthlessness and Millicent's brawn, and Pansy had been sure to provide a steady stream of delicious, exotic confections for her mock-bodyguard in order to keep her happy.

Pansy's mouth twitched. Millicent Bulstrode had had an impressive sweet tooth; she'd inhaled macaroons by the dozen when hungry, and if there was ever chocolate in a room, Millie had been known to find it in fewer than ten seconds flat.

A swift pang of regret swelled in Pansy's chest as she remembered finding her henchwoman after the Battle of Hogwarts. They'd become something like friends over the years, but Pansy had implicated Millie in her schemes with atrocious frequency, often resulting in said witch being forced to suffer through detention with the ever-irascible Professor Snape. Millie hadn't been particularly kind or bright, per se, but she'd been steadfast and surprisingly sweet when she wanted to be in her own, unusual way. She hadn't deserved Pansy's ill treatment, nor the gruesome end she'd come to in the fighting.

Truth be told, Pansy missed her. Badly. But she'd felt Millie's absence even more keenly before Granger had decided to sweep her up out of nowhere; and now that Pansy wasn't quite so isolated, she wasn't as prone to stewing in guilt and grief.

Pansy shot a covert glance at Granger who thankfully for once didn't seem to notice, absorbed as she was in her potions text. The Gryffindor's curls were as chaotic as ever, their colour a light, soft brown streaked through with strands of beige and honey, and they'd frizzed during the time the two girls had spent outside after lunch walking around the Black Lake before heading back to the library. Under the rays of sunlight that filtered through the window at their table's side, those thin, unruly ringlets glowed a rich gold, creating an effect not unlike a halo around Granger's brow.

Pansy almost snorted at herself. _A halo?_ Bloody hell _, Parkinson_ — _get yourself together, woman! She's_ Granger. _She's_ _not an angel, she's_ —

The Slytherin's train of thought dissolved as she found herself unable to come up with a suitable alternative. Somehow, "Gryffindor" and "bookworm" and especially "Muggle-born" seemed to have become inadequate descriptors. Pansy jerked a little as she forced herself to snap out of it.

The truth was that Pansy didn't know what the hell to make of Granger anymore. She was a mess of contradictions that somehow gelled perfectly and it was infuriating and fascinating to Pansy.

"If you think any harder, steam's going to start pouring out of your ears," Granger murmured, making a note on the parchment beside her potions text before setting her quill down and fixing Pansy with a look of amused anticipation. "Whatever it is you want to ask me, Pansy, you should just ask, already."

Pansy sighed, tossing her quill down too, resigned to the fact that her essay wasn't going to get completed that day. She returned Granger's stare with her own exasperated one. "Why'd you come sit with me that day?" Pansy asked abruptly. "And I mean aside from what you've already told me about thinking I deserved a second chance. I _know_ there's more to it, Granger, and it's driving me fucking _insane_."

Granger looked away from Pansy, fretting her bottom lip between her teeth and staring out the window at the grounds. Pansy felt her curiosity mount as Granger's silence stretched on.

"I can't tell you all of it yet," Granger began eventually, "but I can tell you part. Is that enough for now?"

Pansy considered her offer for a moment, before huffing, "I guess. At this rate, anything's better than nothing."

"Well," said Granger, who then sighed and brought her frustrated gaze back up to meet Pansy's. "You're going to think I'm a wretched person."

Pansy openly scoffed at that, drawing a small smile from her companion. "I doubt it," she drawled, "but by all means, try me, Granger."

Said witch nodded slowly, resolve firming the curve of her jaw. "Well, truth be told...I was sick of the hero worship." Pansy raised a single brow, prompting Granger to elaborate. "I can't stand it, Parkinson. People who wouldn't _deign_ to be seen near me before the war now come sidling up, trying to ingratiate themselves with me, or—even worse—they start speaking to me as though we've been friends for years. All when before, they wouldn't be caught dead standing next to me just because I'm a bit of a swot."

As she spoke, Granger grew increasingly irritated and a light hue of pink slowly bled into her cheeks.

"It drives me berserk, which is one of the reasons why I come here so often. It's fairly commonly known that I don't like to be bothered when I'm working, and Madam Pince sees to anyone who does pester me. But though it's nice to get away and have somewhere to hide, it can get rather lonely."

Pansy frowned, puzzled. "But what about the Wease—er, rather, what about Weasley and Longbottom? I thought you were close with them."

Granger sighed. "I am, I am. It's just that... Look. I love Ginny like a sister and Neville like a brother, but Neville is only in a couple of my classes and Ginny's still finishing sixth year because of the war. On top of that, I don't get to see them a lot outside of lessons. No, I'm serious," she insisted when Pansy _tsk_ ed skeptically. "Neville is busy apprenticing under Professor Sprout and now that Ginny's the Gryffindor captain, most of her schedule is taken up by Quidditch. The other thing is, neither of them have trouble with being surrounded by all those people—I think they kind of got used to it last year."

Pansy could only agree with that assumption; because though she didn't know much about the Weaselette, she'd been in enough of Longbottom's classes during the year previous to notice how most of the students outside of Slytherin had seemed to look to him for cues on how to react to, for example, the infamous cruelty of Carrow twins. He'd been the epitome of a Gryffindor, then, refusing to give in even when they tortured him in front of the class for refusing to _Crucio_ a first year. Within the privacy of her own mind, Pansy had been just as impressed with Longbottom as the others had been, her former opinions of him aside.

Granger's next words brought Pansy out of her reflection. "So with those two busy, I was on my own for the most part. But then there you were, Parkinson; miserable, harassed, isolated. Seeing you alone like that reminded me of all the times Harry and Ron were cross with me and hung me to out to dry." Granger grimaced. "And then I realized that if I approached you, you definitely weren't going to suck up to me like the others. I mean, as far as I knew, you still hated me. But I figured that maybe after everything that happened—and given that you seemed lonely—you might be willing to put up with me if I tried to start some kind of friendship with you.

"So I gave it a shot, and here we are. I'm rather glad I went through with it, to be honest."

Pansy shook her head in disbelief. "Only you, Granger," she said, impressed and bemused all at once. "Only you would try to make friends with an enemy to avoid being worshiped by a bunch of sycophants."

Granger laughed; it was a sad, wry sound.

"I suppose," she admitted with a faint half-smirk, before seeming to lose herself in thought for a minute. "You know," the Gryffindor witch went on to muse, "besides you, Ginny, and Neville, the only person who I can stand to be around for any kind of prolonged period of time is Luna Lovegood." Pansy's disbelief doubled, and it must have shown in her expression because Granger laughed and shook her head.

"I know what people say about Luna, Pansy, and it's true she's eccentric, but she's also a wonderful friend and almost...supernaturally observant. Sometimes I wonder if she has some strange version of the Sight that makes her see physical manifestations of people's emotions, which she's taken to interpreting as those outlandish creatures that she's always talking about.

"Oh, don't look at me like that," Granger rebuked Pansy, whose eyebrows were rising ever-closer to her hairline. "I may abhor the notion of Divination classes but after everything that happened with Harry, I'd be a fool if I didn't make an effort to be a little bit more open-minded. That doesn't mean I'm about to go make nice with Trelawney, though." The look in her eyes was thunderous. "That'll happen over my dead body, Parkinson, so don't go getting any ideas."

Pansy held up her hands defensively. "All right, Granger, all right! Pax."

Granger rolled her eyes. Then, abruptly, her expression brightened. "You know, you'd probably actually like Luna! Maybe I should introduce the two of you. I know she'd get a kick out of you and your potty mouth. Luna adores honesty, no matter how blunt—or profane."

"Are you kidding, Granger?" Pansy demanded, incredulous. "I'd reduce her to tears within five minutes of meeting her. There's no way in Hecate's hell that we could be friends."

"You'd be surprised, Parkinson. Don't be so quick to judge," Granger admonished her. "You thought I was a goodie-two-shoes through-and-through before you got to know me, remember?

"Luna's got a backbone of steel—she needs it, people bully her constantly when she's not around her friends. If she let what they said pierce her skin, there wouldn't be any left on her to speak of. She'd take you some getting used to but...I don't know, it's just...she has this odd way of bringing people peace that you would probably appreciate. I respect her, Pansy—you should give her a chance."

Pansy shrugged, reluctantly intrigued by Granger's portrayal of the ditsy blonde but not willing to give much away. She looked down at her essay, her gaze glazing over the words as she replied, "Sure, Granger. Can't hurt. Beggars can't be choosers, after all."

That comment didn't go over well. "Merlin's sake—You're not a beggar, Parkinson," Granger snapped; Pansy's head jerked back up at the hostile tone and she was surprised to see Granger glaring at her with anger and hurt mingling in her eyes.

"And what would you know about it, Granger?" Pansy demanded, hackles rising as she felt a sudden surge of defensiveness. "At least the people you're avoiding aren't looking to hex you five ways to Sunday! I _am_ a beggar, or I might as well be. Whatever this is between us, Granger, it's all I have. _All_ I have." Pansy stared Granger down in a fit of righteous indignation. "My housemates couldn't give two flying fucks what happens to me now, the rest of the school wants my head, and my family?" Pansy laughed, and it was an ugly, derisive sound. "Don't even get me started on my family _._ If it can even be called that."

Pansy looked away from Granger, pretending to stare at the view outside the window while really fighting off the tears threatening at her waterlines. "You don't know a goddamned thing, Granger, so don't presume to tell me my own situation, because if that's what here for then you might as well _fuck_ off, _right_ now!"

Pansy trembled with despairing rage as she spat those last few words, her clenched fists pressing hard into the surface of the table as she continue to stare unseeingly out the window.

The _clack-clack-clack_ of raised heels slapping stone approached the girls' table and with it, a scowling Madam Pince who demanded Pansy's attention. The Hogwarts librarian's thunderous expression softened infinitesimally as she took in the obvious distress of the two girls in front of her but her ire prevailed nonetheless.

"Miss Parkinson, Miss Granger," she hissed by way of greeting. "If it is still your wish to frequent this library with your typical regularity and to enjoy the leniency that I afford the pair of you—and yes, I do afford you two a great deal of leniency on the account of your _usual_ respect for the sanctity of this space—" Madam Pince rebuked them with a glare, "—then you will kindly keep your voices _down! ..._ And _especially_ so if you insist upon using profanity, Miss Parkinson," she added coldly. "Am I understood?!"

"Yes, Madam Pince," replied the two young women, contrition apparently trumping any other emotions they were experiencing. The librarian sized Pansy and Granger up for a little while longer before nodding curtly in acceptance of their apparent remorse.

"Good," remarked the librarian; she then quirked one of her wickedly sharp eyebrows at the reprimanded students before turning on her heel and marching back the way she came, calling out over her shoulder the rather ominous phrase: "This is your first and only warning."

When the sound of Pince's footsteps faded into the background, several additional moments passed in silence as the tension from the previous conversation, which had loomed overhead during the librarian's scolding, descended once more upon the table by the window, lingering among mounds of parchment, loose and bound alike.

Pansy's heart thudded unevenly against her rib-cage and despite her best efforts, the brimming tears that had been momentarily kept at bay by the presence of Madam Pince proceeded to boil over and spill down her cheeks. As she hastily wiped saltwater off her face with the sleeve of her jumper, Pansy silently and bitterly mused that she was almost positive she'd cried more in the past handful of months than she had previously in her entire life.

Eventually, it seemed, Granger couldn't abide the suffocating quiet. "I'm sorry, Pansy," she sighed quietly, propping an elbow on the table and lowering her forehead to her palm, eyes closed in visible frustration. "I just—I hate hearing you demean yourself. All the self-deprecating crap that you spout really makes me want to jinx you sometimes, and the pessimism, too. But you're right that your situation isn't great right now and that, in spite of this," she gestured between them, "I've no right to say otherwise."

The Gryffindor sighed again and in her peripheral vision, Pansy could see Granger opening her wide, tawny eyes and staring at Pansy intently. "What you said...I suppose, for whatever reason...it hurt my pride. I'm entirely too self-important sometimes," Granger admitted, her lips pursed. "I just wish I could do more, and I wish you had more hope for the future, and I'm sorry, and...I'll stop rambling now before I make an even bigger fool of myself," she muttered, groaning and lowering her face, reddened cheeks and all, back into her upturned palm.

Pansy suddenly felt exhausted. Her stinging eyes flicked back and forth between the mass of curls obstructing her view of Granger's face and the shoulders beneath and behind them, hunched forward and nearly quivering with stress.

"Granger," started Pansy, waiting until the other witch would finally look up and meet her gaze before continuing. "What would you say about getting out of here so we can discuss this shite without having to worry about getting banned from the library for the rest of the year?"

Granger stared at Pansy, taken off-guard by the suggestion; but within moments, a large, beaming smile slowly spread across her face as the Muggle-born witch made her heartfelt reply:

"I would say 'hell yes.' Let's go."

* * *

"Ugh," spat Granger as Pansy watched on in amusement. "I'll never get used to Firewhisky. I know it's in the name, but still—it burns!"

"And yet, I was the one named 'Pansy,'" sniped the Slytherin between snickers.

The two of them were holed up a small, cozy lounge provided by the Room of Requirement—which, as Granger had commented, was miraculously functional even after Vince's Fiendfyre fiasco. The Room had been generous enough to provide a pair of tumblers, and Granger, a bottle of Ogden's Finest that the Gryffindor prefects had confiscated from some fourth years.

 _"Protocol is to put all the contraband in a cupboard in the common room,"_ Granger had told Pansy with a tiny smirk. _"They still use my old warding scheme to protect it."_

 _"Well damn, Granger,"_ Pansy had teased, _"Definitely not a goodie-two-shoes."_

Back in the present, Granger rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah," she responded, affable, waving off Pansy's jibe. "I'll freely admit I'm not the most impressive drinker to have ever lived."

Pansy raised a brow sarcastically, and Granger flopped backwards, sinking into her chaise with a loud huff. "Circe—fine, I'm a lightweight!" she admitted. "Two bottles of Butterbeer is enough to do it for me."

"Circe is right!" snorted Pansy in amused disbelief. "You'd better nurse the hell out of that tumbler then, Granger. Don't want to go spilling any secrets in front of big, bad Parkinson."

It was Granger's turn to snort. "Big, bad Parkinson," she echoed, chuckling slightly. "You're not quite as big or bad as you'd like to believe, Pansy. Still very respectable, though, don't get me wrong," she raced to add before Pansy could think to take offence. Her hasty amendment had the desired effect; Pansy found her nervousness rather adorable.

"Relax, Granger, I'm not going to jump down your throat again any time soon," Pansy reassured her. "You're forgiven. I overreacted anyways, I know that you hate when I pull that shite. It's just—" Pansy sighed in exasperated frustration, trying to think of how best to explain what she wanted to say. "Listen, you've got to remember that I'm not you, Grange—Hermione. You _choose_ to have a small circle because that's the way you like it, and I respect that—especially given the circumstances—but all the same, it's your choice. Right now, I don't have that kind of choice. What I'd _like,_ " said Pansy, and the scorn imbued in the word wasn't completely able to mask its undertone of longing, "doesn't even factor into it. I'm lucky to have you as it is."

"That was almost sentimental, Parkinson," Granger teased lightly before sobering. The Gryffindor student raised her glass to her lips and took a small sip of Firewhisky, this time moderating her reaction to a minor grimace. "But all kidding aside...I realize that our predicaments are very different, and it was wrong of me to forget that earlier and snap at you for venting about the difficulties you're facing. Even if I didn't like the way you did it. But as I've said before and will keep saying until you actually, finally believe me, Pansy: I'm not going to leave you to deal with this shite on your own. I don't abandon my friends—loyal to a fault and all that." Granger waved a hand dismissively. "Call me a Badger if you dare."

Pansy didn't laugh, but a reluctant smile tugged at her lips. "I would never," she responded dryly, taking a large swig of Ogden's to hide her amusement. "And believe me, Granger, whatever your still somewhat _elusive_ reasons," Pansy continued pointedly, "I'm grateful for your friendship, I really am. You've already helped me a great deal by getting Greengrass off my case, even if it's just for the moment. But you can't really blame me for thinking, however irrationally, that's it's not going to last. I mean, have you even thought about what happens after graduation, Granger, assuming we make it through the year as friends? For all we know, you'll go off and be queen of the world, and I'll be lucky if I manage to get a shop job."

Granger scowled reproachfully at Pansy but, having learned from her previous faux pas, let that last comment slide. Pansy's greater implication, however, did not remain similarly untouched.

"So what? You think that just because we might be a little busy after graduation, we're automatically going to drift apart?" the Muggle-born asked incredulously. "That's a load of crock, Parkinson. No, I'm serious," Granger protested, all earnestness as Pansy laughed loudly, albeit halfheartedly, at the absurd expression.

"When I say I'm 'loyal,' I mean _loyal_ ," insisted the Gryffindor once the other witch's mirth had faded. "As in steadfast, dependable, with-you-til-the-bitter-end—that kind of thing. But d'you know what? I doubt you'll be able to take my word for it whether you want to or not, so I'll just have to prove it to you in the long term. What d'you say to that, Parkinson?"

For several seconds, Pansy didn't answer her, opting instead to stare at her own lap—or rather, at the tumbler nestled there between her thighs. She picked it up and idly, while staring into its depths, she moved her wrist in a circular motion, setting the Firewhisky swirling at the bottom of the glass. Pansy's eyes followed the flow of the amber liquid until a low hum drew her attention; she brought her focus back to her surroundings just in time to catch Granger watching her with an intensity that set her heart aflutter, much to the Slytherin's chagrin.

Despite her sudden nervousness and the heat she felt rising to her cheeks, however, Pansy didn't break away from Granger's—from _Hermione's_ —gaze.

 _I'm not sure I could if I tried,_ Pansy thought absentmindedly, entranced once more by the colour and perspicacity of the other woman's eyes. _A_ _nd, what's more, I don't particularly want to in any case._

Aloud, she eventually replied, "I say that sounds like a plan, Granger," her voice at a lower timbre than usual. "And not a bad one at that."

Granger leaned forward slightly, extending her tumbler towards Pansy without breaking eye contact. "Shall we drink to it, then?" she asked, and Pansy caught a flicker of uncertainty in the Gryffindor's optimism that for some odd reason put her further at ease.

 _This isn't quite as easy for Granger as she makes it look,_ Pansy noted silently, and not without a hint of satisfaction.

It was that same satisfaction that moved the Pure-blood witch's hand from her lap to bring her glass to meet Granger's. Their tumblers collided with a soft _clink._

"To loyalty," Pansy toasted, and although her tone was subdued, she could feel a swell of hope rise in her chest as she spoke those two, simple words.

Granger nodded in approval, and a sweet, charming smile lifted the corners of her mouth. "And to a partnership full of potential," added the brilliant witch, the apples of her cheeks turning a lovely shade of rose.

Then, without taking their eyes off of one another, each witch raised her glass to her lips, tilted her head back, and drained its contents, sending a rush of warmth coursing through their veins that reached even the very tips of their toes.


End file.
